


A White Rose

by FranRSouza



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, District 4, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Hunger Games, Hunger Games Tributes, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Psychological Torture, Rebellion, Slow Burn, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:02:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23673541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FranRSouza/pseuds/FranRSouza
Summary: Finnick Odair knows exactly what he is: the glorious image of a cunning tribute, a proud winner and the tanned beauty kissed by the sun itself. A formidable lover and the very shadow of a proud statue of a Roman God. He is the image that the Capitolio built and that he keeps as cold iron armor, an impenetrable mask.However, she is not the image of the Capitolio's hungry and greedy desires.No. She is something else.She is the very bloody image of the glory of the hunger games, the genuine gold-plated image of Panem. Branca Walter is a tragic story that has become a prestigious tale of achievement among the Capitolio elite. She is a ghost from the dark past who resides in an uncertain present. Finally, a white rose in the middle of a garden of red roses. Beauty is forgotten but maintained. A little bird trapped in a golden cage.
Relationships: Finnick Odair & Original Character(s), Finnick Odair/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 8





	A White Rose

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first long-fic that attempt to write. So be patient with me.  
> English is not my first language so I'm sorry if there are any grammatical errors.  
> Hope you enjoy it.

> Junto da Morte é que floresce a Vida!   
> Andamos rindo junto à sepultura.   
> A boca aberta, escancarada, escura   
> Da cova é como flor apodrecida. 
> 
> A Morte lembra a estranha Margarida   
> Do nosso corpo, Fausto sem ventura…   
> Ela anda em torno a toda a criatura   
> Numa dança macabra indefinida. 
> 
> Vem revestida em suas negras sedas   
> E a marteladas lúgubrees e tredas   
> Das ilusões o eterno esquife prega. 
> 
> E adeus caminhos vãos, mundos risonhos,   
> Lá vem a loba que devora os sonhos,   
> Faminta, absconsa, imponderada, cega! 
> 
> _Ironia De Lágrimas,_ **_Cruz e Sousa._**

**The** day of theReaping.

If he only closes his eyes; he can feel the shiver, that old haunt of emotion that teases him. A small part of him feels like the 14-year-old boy who was in this same position; this feeling of suffocation.

He can smell the scent of the ocean, that characteristic scent that wanders gracefully throughout District 4, like a cloak, falling gently on all people. The scent of sea with its mixture of fresh salt is a calming him scent that instantly reminds him of home, but makes him heart squeeze, like an iron hand over him a pulsating organ, crushing with amazing ease the only thing that keeps he alive, which keeps his body still functioning. For just a second his breath catches, subtly chokes and an unknown panic, a feeling long forgotten, return like a tsunami.

No matter how far we run the fear catches up with you like a wolf chasing its prey.

When the storm blue eyes wander to the sky, he quickly realizes that it reminds him of a painting. A painting that a boy once gave him. The celestial blue of the sky reminds him of the ink stuck on the blank sheet and the radiant sun, burning his skin, remembers the eyes of fire that the boy had. It is a bitter memory, it has a sour taste that seeps into his tongue instantly.

The past is a knife in his heart, twisting in a cruel and brutish way, but it turns out that in days of the Reaping, the memories, the forgotten ghosts of the past return to haunt him, like vengeful spirits, which float ruthlessly in his mind, reminding him that golden victory is nothing if his hands are bathed in innocent blood.

The fiery eyes, a lump of burning coal, that whiskey tone, seems to wander in his mind like a bird flying over his memories. Sometimes he wishes for oblivion, in silent moments, he wishes to drown, he lets the salty waters of the ocean take him away, he drowns without needing to be saved. That fire-eyed boy is just one of the countless eyes, one of several ghosts that torment him. He locks them inside his mind, keeping them inside an iron box, but even ghosts tend to escape.

Immediately he feels that old feeling of being watched constantly, expecting only a single flaw in the mask, a crack in the armor. But he knows that when he looks at his face, there is nothing but a charming old smile and bright blue eyes. However, if he at least stops looking at the sky, the watercolor painting that reminds him of the past, a beautiful picture painted by nature, he will see only the pity stares on hard tanned faces by the sun.

So, he makes that mistake.

He wanders his eyes at the crowded crowd facing the stage, facing the justice building, the boring gray stone monstrosity. The first thing he sees behind people's polite masks of happiness is the hidden relief, that pure joy of knowing that children lined up by age will not be chosen. This time it won't be tributes. Families will not have to watch the massacre on television. They will not have to watch their children's bodies being slaughtered by other children. They won't have to cry, shed silent tears for their children. They don't have to see the blood being spilled.

This time the hunger games will not reap tributes but victorious.

But he still feels pity showing on the faces of people in District 4. It’s almost like a collective feeling because all the faces that make up the crowd of inhabitants are hiding this feeling of compassion, the capitol cameras cannot see this emotion, because they are too busy looking at the victors and even if for just a few seconds the cameras turn to the public, the only thing they can capture is the false joy that is in the smiles and happy faces.

District 4 is the career district, but that does not mean that behind the serene, lake-like facade, an ocean of fire does not hide, a small drop of salt of rebellion.

Before he sees her, he hears the typical noise of Seraphine's surprisingly high heels, the stunning clothes thrown in flashy colors is the only strange thing on the whole stage, looking at her is like looking directly at the sun; the glow can burn your retina. It is like the only dot of color around gray. The lip painted in a shocking pink move in a smile with pearly teeth, the violet eyes with long lashes overflow with anxiety, a joy.

\- Happy Hunger Games. - Her voice sounds in the silence with her capital accent present in each letter.

Clapping sounds are heard quickly, but there is no joy in the palms heard, there is no touch of proud happiness, there is only a polite emptiness.

Seraphine seems satisfied, as the formerly pearly smile widens easily on his lip. The exaggeratedly long dress seems to sway by her cheering movements while the violet eyes scan the crowd brilliantly.

\- Ladies and Gentlemen, it is with great pleasure that I present the 75th year of the Hunger Games. 

He's tired of it all; tired of moving like a piece on the grand golden board. He's sick of being a thread in the grand scheme.

Guilt consumes him day and night, like a hungry, devouring animal.

It is in this moment of emptiness that he thinks that his biggest mistake was leaving the arena alive. There are days when he regrets not being one of the abated tributes, as it would be just another dead body in the arena, another life taken from the Hunger Games. He would be nothing but an empty memory, just a face like so many others.

However, he remained alive; and with these worse consequences suggest, he became the star of the capital, the desired prize, something to be acquired only at the highest prices, a pet attached to a tight collar.

And worst of all; he lived when he never should have.

\- Today, we celebrate the 3rd Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games. - The joy still resonates in her, with some kind of childlike animation.

People clap again, but it sounds distant to him, maybe it’s because he’s too lost looking at the crowd, trying to keep his eyes on people a few feet away from him, but the truth is he won’t be able to stand to look at his side, because if he does, he knows he will break up against everyone, in front of the cameras and the capital itself.

So he prefers to maintain this pose, which he has always kept around people; the playful indifference of his striking smile and the malice trapped in his pale blue eyes.

In small moments, when he tries to fill his silent mind, tries to fill the restlessness, he ends up wondering what people see when they look at him; if they see the mask that he keeps as true as the fake smile, or if they can see through that window, if they see through the cracks, the scars, all those things that he tries to keep hidden, out of sight of too much.

However, he knows the answer, and perhaps that for a few moments makes him feel relieved that people see exactly what he wants them to see; they see the exuberance of glory, the charming pearly smile and the extremely blue eyes like watercolor paints.

They see what he learned to build over time; the same person they saw when he received the golden victorian tiara. They see the boy who received the trident; the crafty boy who won the games.

\- This year, as you may already know. - Seraphine lets out a laugh, something that should have been funny, but it sounds like just an exotic bird grunting. Maybe she laughed, meaning it was a joke, a moment of humor, but there is nothing but the absolute silence of people looking stoically at her. - The tributes will be chosen from among our victors. - this time Seraphine's eyes meet his.

And he realizes that all attention is on them; the winners in the form of tributes and yet his eyes do not wander to his right side. He can't do it, his eyes are petrified of keeping forward, he can't allow himself to show weakness, so his smile remains even though it has now lost its shine.

Looking to the side is the same as showing your Achilles' heel openly. He's giving ammo, he's offering his vulnerability on a silver platter. Those emerald greenish eyes are the only thing that can break it, like a piece of a shattered mirror.

\- Let the 75th annual Hunger Games begin! - smiling excitement shines on the face as pale as Seraphine's moon.

For the first time that day, Finnick Odair drops his smile and in its place a thin smile blooms along his clenched jaw. For these words sound like a death sentence, words open to the rubble of fatal fate; death in its wolf form, voracious to draw the last breath of life.

\- _May the odds be ever in your favor._

**Author's Note:**

> The poem at the beginning of the chapter is written by Cruz e Sousa. He was a Brazilian poet and journalist, famous for being one of the first Brazilian Symbolist poets ever. A descendant of African slaves, he has received the epithets of "Black Dante" and "Black Swan". He is the patron of the 15th chair of the Academia Catarinense de Letras.


End file.
